Dawn, Kate, Martin, Mike, Russell and I left Leamington on a cloudy Friday afternoon.  We took two cars so that we could undertake a traffic study to see which route around Birmingham was worst.  The radio traffic announcer usefully informed us of the queue just as we joined the back of it.  Kate and Russell won the game resoundingly when they decided to get snarled up with traffic heading to the V Festival.

As we entered Wales, the skies grew darker, and then the rain came.  And it didn’t really go away.  For the next two days our scenery consisted primarily of grey – the sky, the sea and the slate mountainsides – were grey.

Following the queues escaping England, the pressure to put the tents up in what was left of the daylight prompted spirited driving by Dawn and Russell.  Dawn obviously thought she was descended from Jim Clark, the infamous 60s racing driver.  As passengers we were treated to some stomach leaping moments that Alton Towers take years to perfect in their rides.  Driving in the farthest reaches of Wales is challenging, with narrow roads confined by stone walls and rocks.  We successfully avoided the livestock wandering in the roads. Sat-nav isn’t much good when the post code you have represents an area of 100 square miles, but we circled in on the camp site once Kate and Russell had driven in and out of Tywyn a few times.  As the tents unfolded, so did the drama.  The gentle drizzle became proper ploppy raindrops.  My borrowed tent decided to break.  Mike generously allowed me to share his rather swish new black and orange tent – particularly considering that there was no way I could meet his exacting criteria of “No Farters and No Snorers”. However, I was the only one who had realised that we were actually camping, so I had the only roll of toilet paper – an unusual bargaining tool, perhaps.

Never mind, we thought.  Surely the local hostelries will be open, awash with revelling runners keen to spend money in Tywyn? Well, not exactly.  At 9pm, it was a curry or go hungry.  (Except for me. I wasn’t too concerned as I had brought cheese and biscuits as back up for just such an emergency).  So curry it had to be – despite it most definitely being featured in the Runner’s World “10 Things You Must Not Eat Before a Race, You Crazy Fools” list. We retired to the campsite for the night, tired and, frankly, a bit damp.  The noise of the rain battering the tent made for a rubbish night’s sleep. 

Breakfast saw us take seats at the “Jolly Roger” café.  Service did not live up to the “Jolly” expectations the name had led us to believe.  As you might expect, some of us saw breakfast as an opportunity to tick another item off the Runner’s World list and have the proper greasy naughty option.

With an hour to kill, we went for a walk round Tywyn.  Martin and Russell bought waterproof macs for £3.50, and were able to spend the rest of the day looking like the kind of people you would not let your children near.  It was perhaps most disturbing to see how ably Martin carried that particular look.  On hearing that Martin and Russell intended to dispose of their macs near the start, the shopkeeper asked if he could go and collect them – in order to sell again.  I had no need for a mac – I had brought a bin bag with some arm holes cut into it.  We met Vicky, Richard and Mick, augmenting Strider’s presence to nine entrants.

We changed, we raced and we conquered.  We got very wet, very muddy and absolutely knackered – like a really long pub run organised by Mali but without the enormous stinging nettles.  The incessant rain added to the fun to make sure it was extra slippy.  For those that might wish to attempt it next year, the following features are scarred on my memory.  The course is 15 miles long, with the middle third being the most challenging.  The start and finishing thirds are common within a mile or so of Tywyn.  The train whistles, and the race starts from the bridge at the Talyllyn railway station – the idea being that you race against the train, following a mixed course that is close to the train track.  Your supporters can ride the train and shout encouragement to you.  A ford, around a foot deep awaits you about mile 3.  Around mile 5, you climb up a slippy path into some woods, followed by a similarly heroic descent and a hairpin.  That’s followed by a freshly, deeply ploughed field.  It’s certainly not the type of course to achieve a PB on.  Then it’s a steep climb followed by the narrow sheep track which traverses the hills.  A brief picturesque interlude awaits at mile 8, where the race descends by a waterfall, over the stream and back up the other side, swiftly followed by a bog.  The advice “Stick to the right hand side” is worth heeding if you like your shoes.  Another descent, taking care not to slip on stones and tree roots, more sheep track, and back to Tywyn (washing your shoes in the ford again) completes the course.

The results probably aren’t out on the Race the Train website, so here you go …

Mike Ellis 1:40:39 beating the train

Russell Hall 1:47:06 beating the train

Martin Price 1:49:41 who didn’t quite beat the train because it arrived in 1:49

Mick Clarke 2:05:42

Vicky Smith 2:08:17

Kate Hall 2:10:51

Richard Bicknell 2:13:20

Dawn Clark 2:20:40

Richard Brookes 2:23:16

Then it was time to experience the muddied hell that was previously the campsite shower block.  Half a hillside of mud and grass and goodness knows what else must have been sluiced into the drains, preventing them from draining well. As a consequence, the remaining half hillside still was splattered on the shower cubicle itself, awaiting dry air or drainage. It was a logistical challenge to actually get clean and dry and put on clothes that were also clean and dry.

Rehydration continued at the White Hart pub in Tywyn, which was dry and warm and served good beer and cider.  We had to wait a while for food, but when it came it was sumptuous.  Mike and Martin brandished their ‘pork swords’ (kebabs) and everyone laughed when Russell hobbled to the toilet. (Which was nothing to do with the pork swords by the way. Ed.)